Drabble Dump
by KingdomFlameVIII
Summary: My junk drawer of short/incomplete oneshots. Either stories that lack smut, or smut that lacks a story. Just AkuRoku for now, more pairings to come! Now taking prompts.
1. An Unexpected Visitor

**Sup, everyone? Welcome to my Drabble Dump! This is my ultimate excuse for all the stories that have no smut, and all of the smuts that have no story! I've got a pile of these just **_**waiting **_**for somewhere to go, and I figured no profile should be without one of these babies anyway. So yeah, waddup?**

**First ever prompt: LoTR setting. Axel is a wizard and Roxas is a hobbit.**

* * *

When the sun cracked the sky over the green, rolling hills of the Shire, it appeared to be nothing more or less than a perfectly ordinary day. It was a Wednesday, to be precise, and at approximately six a.m., the first stirrings were to be heard from the single inhabitant of Bag End.

Roxas Sackville-Baggins, much unlike his predecessors, had not come to inherit Bag End in any manner of curiosity. In fact, there was nothing curious about the much rumored-about hobbit hole at all. Tongues had been wagging through Hobbiton for generations about tunnels and tunnels stuffed with gold and dragon's treasure, but Roxas would be the first to deny any nonsense of the sort. After spending the last decade of impressively long life searching, the only treasure that his late mother, Dame Lobelia Sackville-Baggins could reveal even in the most inner sanctum of Bag End was a fine, jewel encrusted box containing a number of golden spoons.

At the ripe young age of thirty-six years old, Roxas had lived at Bag End since he was ten, and had inherited it at twenty. Ever since his thirty-third birthday, the old folks at the pub had been incessantly pestering him to find himself a wife and an heir. Roxas had never paid much mind to the women of the Shire, and was far more contented to simply sow his fields by day, and indulge in his finest pipe weed by night than spend any time in the company of women.

On this particular Wednesday morning, Roxas followed his carefully laid out routine like he did on every other day. He had aroused at six, gone out in his dark green cloak to feed the chickens, come back inside for a morning bath (after a quick tea cake for breakfast), after which he began preparing tea and bread and butter with bacon and tomatoes for second breakfast. Just as he was raising the bread to his lips, his ears quirked at a very queer, but not unfamiliar sound.

_Tap tap tap._

Roxas quickly got up in a fuss, trying his hardest to push away his sympathies for his poor green door. It has taken a commendable amount of abuse over the years, because you see it has been a tradition dating back to Uncle Bilbo's days that a wizard should take a fancy to whichever hobbit living in Bag End and knocking on the door with their wretched sticks whenever the mood fancied them. Even after Gandalf the Grey had become a long forgotten name in the Shire, his young apprentice was quick to follow in his footsteps.

Axel the Red was the first wizard to appear following the start of New Middle Earth. Where he comes from is beyond the knowledge of the Shire, and perhaps to all save for Gandalf. Roxas was certain he may never know, as Gandalf had long disappeared and Axel greatly enjoyed playing the role of enigma.

Like his predecessor, Axel was known through this Shire predominantly for his magnificent fireworks, the skill of which had surpassed even that of Gandalf, or so rumor had it. As soon as the young wizard came to town, everybody knew about it. He _towered _over everybody, even more so than the average Big Folk, and he had a wild mane of hair as bright and flaming as his fireworks.

_Tap tap tap._

'A moment please!' Roxas called through frustrated teeth. He wrenched his door open rather irritably. 'Stop right there! Begone, wizard!' he shouted, shaking an accusing finger at Axel. 'I know what you're up to! You're here to whisk me off on an adventure, aren't you? Well to that I say _no thank you, _I've had _quite _enough of all the talk of adventures growing up! Uncle Bilbo with his dragons, Cousin Frodo with his rings. I say _no.'_

'My dear young hobbit!' Axel exclaimed, 'I would not think for a moment of dragging your mule-ish self outside the confines of the Shire! Without the comforts of your kettle, how utterly useless you would be!'

Roxas scowled and crossed his arms, but under Axel's twinkling smile and rumbling laugh, his angry pretenses crumbled. 'It's simply grand to see you, old friend!' he exclaimed, falling into Axel's expecting arms. 'Come, come inside! I've just started breakfast!'

'Only just? I fear I've arrived far too early then. I shall have tea cakes pouring from my ears by the time we're finished.'

'It will be good for you," Roxas insisted. 'You're far too skinny. Perhaps if we stuffed you to the brim, you would grow up a little. How is it that have not aged a day, not even since I was a child? I cannot remember.'

Tucking his hands into his pockets, Axel shook his head, 'It is of no importance, my dear friend.'

'But won't it be? When the time comes that I am on my deathbed, withered and grey, and you will still retain the appearance of an unruly tween, will it matter then?" the hobbit muttered.

Axel's expression softened. He may have been trying to hide it, but Roxas' sorrow was clear. Without a moment's hesitation, the wizard leaned over the table and kissed his friend softly, as they had done for years behind closed doors. 'It will not matter then, either, because I will still care for you then just as I do now, and just as I always have.'

Wide, youthful blue eyes met glittering chartreuse.

'How long will you stay?' Roxas asked.

'I can stay for a week,' the wizard replied solemnly.

Neither could be seen emerging from Bag End until the following Wednesday, when Axel the Red left the Shire, and Roxas Sackville-Baggins came outside to see him off. Once Axel was long gone, Roxas would go back inside and resume his careful schedule as always, waiting alone for the time to come in which Axel would return again.


	2. Lost in Cape Town 1

**Songfic because why not. Believe it or not, this has been sitting on my hard drive for well over a year. I can't seem to finish it, though. It was supposed to just be an average ordinary songshot, or songalong, as I like to call them, but the smut defeats me. I'm hoping by posting it in drabble-y sections, you guys will give me the motivation I need to finish it.**

**The song is called "Cape Town" by The Young Veins. I love Ryan Ross.**

* * *

What does one normally think of when one hears the word vacation? I don't mean like, summer vacation, or a couple of days off from work. I'm talking about a trip of at least moderate travel, the kind that usually requires lots of travel or planning in advance, unless you're the spontaneous type. The kind that are really fun while you're doing them, but then leave you exhausted when you come home because you aren't used to so much walking around.

I supposed most people would first think of their dream vacation, to a far off tropical place, like Hawaii or the Bahamas or Italy. Then lots of people probably think about places they've been before. Maybe they think about sunny beaches littered with those crappy tourist kiosks, or maybe they think of mountain climbing or long road trips. If you're the meticulous or the anxious sort, perhaps you cannot think anything past the trouble you're sure to run into at the airport. In contrast to that, a more free spirited person might think of camping, about getting away to the great outdoors.

As a very average and boring human being, I used to think about all of those things too, until I went to Cape Town, South Africa.

Most people probably also think of family when you think vacation, right? Family, or friends at least. Big groups of people to enjoy the trip with, whether it's spent it with kids, a best friend, or a lover even. After all, where's the fun in going to indescribable, exotic places of not to share it with the people you love?

In my case, such deductions are wrong. I went to Cape Town, South Africa, alone. I went to Cape Town, South Africa so that I could _escape _the company of my friends and family and the people I loved. They didn't even know where I went. I just decided to get up on a sunny Friday, pack my bags, and leave my roommate a very vague note on the kitchen table. I hustled my airline ticket at a random bar playing pool, and then I was on my way to a country I'd never been to. Good thing I got my passport renewed last month.

I'd been in town for four days when I started to think about when I might want to leave. I hadn't then decided how long I planned on staying. My mother was incomparably successful; she probably hadn't even _noticed _the considerable dent I'd put in her credit balance with the "emergency" credit card she'd entrusted me with. I booked the nicest hotel with the best view I could find, and I'd been eating at the most expensive places in town.

I could see what drew people. While the tourist-y areas were as full as any beach town with visitors, the cape was also full of culture, and economy. The way the people traded, ran their businesses, and really just lived out their lives was new and fascinating to me. A cacophony of accents and languages filled the air as travelers passing through and sellers on the street bartered for goods and shared stories with one another. The first few days had me captivated, and for a while, even, it helped me to forget.

But such fancies were short-lived. After a few days it started getting depressing. I wasn't getting tired of the people, rather I hated that I had nobody to share my revelations with. Don't get me wrong, the solemnity from my family was great, but it also tugged at my heartstrings, just a little, to see all of the happy couples _everywhere. _And I mean everywhere. Bars, beaches, restaurants, clubs, park benches, everywhere. The majority of the tourists there, after all, were either young families or honeymooners.

Then, out of nowhere, along came the red.

While I was meandering along, contemplating when to go home, I happened across a little outdoor Tiki bar. You know, the kind that advertise exoticness and only offered tropical fruity drinks. I can't say that I was a fan of them, but my feet were starting to hurt and it was a bit of a walk back to my hotel. I'd been sitting down maybe thirty seconds before I heard someone clearing their throat in front of me.

I lifted my head to meet a pair of curious, almond-shaped eyes of bottle green. Expanding my gaze a bit, I found myself face to face with the bartender. He was a prime example of the mixed culture Cape Town had to offer. He had this crazy red hair tied back in a low ponytail, and this long, gangling body that gave the impression of a bunch of pipe cleaners wound together. He was attractive.

Like, really attractive.

"What can I get you, cutie?" He asked in plain English.

Despite his lack of native appearance, he had the slightest hint of an accent. The kind that a person got when they grew up speaking two languages but spoke mostly the other. It was hot.

"Surprise me," I said indifferently. I was really only there because I felt like killing some time before night time television would come on, and I could go back to my room and watch it, all night. The sun was beginning to turn orange, so I knew I wouldn't have to wait long.

He continued to talk to me as he set to work.

"Are you here alone?" he asked as he shook something in a decorated container, offering me a cordial smile, "I don't usually see that."

"Yeah, I'm alone," I told this complete stranger, not knowing or caring what I was getting myself into by saying so. "I'm here to get away."

"From who? If you don't mind my asking…"

I sighed. It wouldn't hurt to tell him. Not anymore.

"From my dead wife."

The man's face paled as he set some electric blue drink in a fishbowl down at the counter. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"Everybody says that," I snapped, "My family, _her _family, even people at work. It's been five damn years and they're still treating me like a basket case. I wanna _move on, _you know?"

He looked at me like I was crazy. I probably was crazy. But hey, in my head, it was a hell of a lot better of an expression than pity, and for that I respected him. I was so sick of people looking at me like an abandoned pack of baby squirrels, or in even worse cases, avoiding eye contact at all. It was like they were afraid to set me off just by looking me in the eye. I mean, come on, I _know _the difference between staring and seeing. Five years might not seem like a long time when you look at the big picture, but after just experiencing it? It's a long ass time. Long enough, apparently, for me to get over becoming a widow at twenty years old.

It was true, my wife was dead. Some creep cornered her behind this gas station. First he told her to give up the wallet, naturally, and of course, like anyone would she gave it to him without a fuss. But then he pulled a gun on her. Told her that if he couldn't have her way with him he'd shoot her. She told him she'd take the gun. She went down fighting, because that's the kind of woman she was. I know this, because she told me from her own mouth, as I sat back waiting for the internal bleeding to claim her life. What do you say to somebody, knowing that they might only have minutes left?

No matter what, my thoughts always ended up returning to the gas station. Why that night? That gas station? It was a mile down the road from our house, we used it at least twice a week. How many times had he hung around there, trying to muster up the balls to mug somebody? What was it about my Naminé that empowered him? She was wearing my jeans and a trenchcoat, for fuck's sake.

I was snapped out of my daze when the guy finally came up with a reply.

"I can understand that," he said softly.

Well, thank god _somebody _could. I just don't understand why I have to travel halfway around the world to find him. Isn't that what my friends were supposed to be for? He didn't avoid my gaze, or look down like he was embarrassed to have accidentally touched a sore subject. I guess working in a bar trained you to handle all kinds of situations like these.

"Thanks…" I said lamely, testing the drink he gave me. It was good.

That was the first encounter I had with the mysterious redhead bartender.


End file.
